1939, Poland

As told to Thursday Bram.

Everyone else seems only to remember how tired they were, how they could focus only on putting one foot in front of another. All I could think of was my thirst.

All I wanted was some of that snow, to wet my mouth. But they hurried us along, and I knew that stopping would hurt far worse than my thirst.

I was perhaps 14, and the trains had scared me badly. I was from deep in the country. I had seen two, perhaps three, automobiles in my entire life. I had heard of trains, but no tracks ran near my little village.

When the train had first started to move, I had almost screamed. I couldn’t get enough air, and I think that may have saved my life. I have heard that others screamed, and the soldiers made them stop, however they pleased.

It was hard to understand these soldiers’ accents; they didn’t use words I recognized. But the man in front of me mumbled, “Food, rest - it is ahead. Just keep moving.”

Water must be ahead, if there was food. This was my mantra, the hope that kept me moving. I still believed that the soldiers, though callous, were not entirely murderous.

It was not long before I could not see the train. There were more and more soldiers, and they began yelling. Our destination was nearing, I was sure.

Words murmured down the lines for those of us with poor German: “If you are weak and can’t work, go to the right! If you can work, to the left.” “Sick, right. Able, left.” “Children, cripples, old folks, head right. Young, healthy, ready to work, go left.”

I do not think I heard, “Go left to live, and go right to die.” I was tired and felt very weak. And I was little more than a child myself. I leaned towards the right fork, focused on the thought of sitting down and drinking and maybe even eating. But I had come to work.

The soldiers had come to my home, looking for my father. They said he had to come work – that a man from every family had to work. I knew what that would mean for the rest of us, though.

I was the oldest, but I still had no skills to support all six of us. I offered to go in his place, to go instead. He had tried to tell me “no,” but he knew that I was right. I was here to work, but I was so tired.

There was a man in a German uniform standing at the split, a true ubermensch: tall, blonde, muscular. I watched him harshly pull an old man from the left path to the right, or split a child from his father – the boy to the right and the man to the left.

My moment of truth was before me faster than I could have believed. I had been yards down the line, but suddenly, there were only a few people ahead of me, and I had to decide – me a boy of 14 years who had only ever decided whether to cut school – I had to decide which fork was best.

I was so thirsty. I was so desperate to just stop and rest and perhaps even think. I would go right, I decided. After all, if I really must work, after I had rested a bit, the soldiers would put me in the right place. This was my reasoning.

I walked toward the right-hand fork. But suddenly, I felt myself flying backward, dragged by my coat. The ubermensch looked me over critically, looking for some obvious flaw or disability that would keep me from working.

I was healthy enough – just thirsty and tired. He sneered and threw me down. But not to the right. He threw me down on the left path. I did not get up fast enough for him, and he kicked me, roaring “Go!”

I scrambled to my feet and ran back into the line. Soon, I would be working, doing as much as any man 10 years older than me.

At first, we were told that those who had taken the right-hand path were happy and resting. Then we were told nothing. Rumors flew, but none ever were as bad as the truth.

It would be five years before I could rest because of that German soldier. Five years in which I worked, struggled, fought, lived, because of that man.

Those people whom he sent down the right-hand fork didn’t have five years, or even five days. They were simply gone.

Thursday Bram has been writing down the stories she’s heard since grade school. Her grandfather told her this story, and many others, of how he survived the Holocaust. She blogs at Thursdaybram.com.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Monday, July 30th, 2007 | Email This Post

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